The Thing in the Window
by battlenotwithmonsters
Summary: Illusions create beauty, inspire love, and destroy minds. Christine will always be subjet to illusions.


In which I toy with symbolism. Those of you who read the Kay book will get it. On a note, I wrote this for me, not the masses. I am publishing this for me, me, me, and me. Consequently, if you happen not to understand it, read the book. And if you still don't understand it, don't come crying to me, if you please. I am not responsible for your petty ignorance. Oh, and I never reply to reviews, so don't take it personally, ok?

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_Stop shivering. He hates it when you shiver like that._

But he didn't stir. The rich and handsome, secure in their position, are rarely light sleepers. No, he didn't like her shivering, but how could she help it? She had always been sensitive to the cold. But he said it was good for people, and anyway, his rival was gone. There was no reason to close the windows any more.

The child (for she was a child, even in her twenty-eighth year) rose slowly and quietly, and tiptoed to the window. Healthy or not, she hated the cold, and wanted to close the window.

Standing there, at the sill, she looked out upon the snowy gardens below. All the roses were gone, either shriveled and ground into the snow or plucked, dried and stuck in a china vase. It was still cold. She reached for the widow, and suddenly noticed…a shadow.

It was beautiful.

It looked like a snowflake, the center ringed with little spindles, delicate and lovely. Transfixed, she watched it glide gently down the window frame. It rotated slowly, floating with gentle purpose towards the sill. It was far too big to be a snowflake, but had all of a snowflake's fragile grace. It was a very dark shadow, contrasting sharply with the white paint on the frame. But it was only a shadow, and all shadows must be cast by something possessing form and substance. But what…?

On a sudden, a memory stirred. Stories that her father had taught her…perhaps…perhaps it was a fairy!

_Fairies are only tiny angels…there are angels everywhere, Christine…_

For a second, rational life lessons combated with the comforting thought, but the sensible cries of otherwise were completely ignored by the shadowy reasoning of a sad and lonely child. Perhaps this was what she'd been waiting for. It was so terribly lonely inside the house, all by herself when Raoul was out. So terribly lonely…

Determined to see it, she waited impatiently for the shadow to land, waiting to see what a beautiful thing must have cast the shadow…

Suddenly, her face slackened and a scream died in her throat.

She watched it pause, turning about on the sill as if looking for her…it was looking for her…oh, God it was looking for her!

She was trembling now, but not from the cold. Panic seized her and the only part of her brain functioning was the one whispering _dontscreamdontscreamdontscream_. If Raoul saw her terror, he might do what he had done that summer: make her touch it.

_They can't harm you Christine. The only way to get over this silly fear is to confront it!_

She hadn't spoken to him for the rest of the week. Transfixed, she stared with wide eyes at the thing on the windowsill. What had made her think that such a thing could be beautiful? It was hideous! The way it skimmed over the surface, the traps it made, the things it killed, the way it killed them, the way it hid in the shadows...no, it was not beautiful. So symmetrical, so delicate and precise…so perfect and frightening…all in black and walking in shadows, such a grand illusion. It moved, and she twitched, a muscle in her eye jumping. It was coming closer. So strange that this monster of hell should weld her eyes to its shape. She felt sick as it approached, but oddly fascinated…it was…attractive in some unfathomable way…almost…beautiful, arcanely beautiful. Drawn by the intricacy of its form, she moved nearer, nearly touching it. So beautiful…so very beautiful…she reached out a finger, all fear gone somewhere far away…her finger brushed the tip of its outstretched arm…

As quick as a heartbeat, panic struck upon contact as she remembered what it was and she swept the hem of her sleeve towards it, pushing it away…she pushed too hard.

In a tiny bundle of spindly, broken legs, it sat in the corner of the sill, dead. Horrified by what she had done from fear, she bent over it, finger brushing tiny finger-like spindles. No…no, it was so beautiful, so frighteningly beautiful, and it was just an accident…

She cradled it in her hand, letting the feathery, wing-like legs caress her palm. Holding her hand gently to her breast, she knelt upon the floor, head bowed.

And for a second time, Christine wept over a spider she had killed.

-End-


End file.
